I'm buying this...today.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Heart-Shaped Picture Frames
Sunday morning, I catered a Jewish Baby-Naming for a gay couple. It was their second child, a daughter. They already had a three year old boy, and he was clearly spoiled, as there wasn't one room in the entire 3-story house that didn't have a corner devoted to toys. The house was beautiful, lavish, and Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired. The word, "wealthy" doesn't even begin to describe these noblemen of the twenty-first century. After all, they did just unload well over a grand to feed and entertain over 100 guests from their temple in celebrating the naming of their second child. It was more than just a celebration of a birth in my eyes, though; it was a celebration of a victory.
These men are victorious. They have defeated the caitiff of homosexual stereotype. I hope I can learn from them, because I still feel trapped by it. Contrary to my gay-hating retaliation and unjustifiable retreat before I give myself the chance to get to know a boy, these heroes of the cause met, fell in love, and started a fucking family. That's beautiful. Cheers, guy! I hope one day I find someone who can help me slay the dragon of self-fulfilling prophecies. More gay couples need to start successful families in order to prove to the world that we can provide a healthy environment to raise kids, and to prove to our more lascivious counterparts that procreation is still the most rewarding outcome of life.
At the end of the event, I saw a little girl scouring a decorative pillar with paper-machet and pictures of the family. The pillar had pictures of their son, graduation pictures, wedding pictures, etc. At first, the girl was plagued with confusion, but as she stuck her face as close to each heart-shaped picture as she could without losing focus, a little spark of understanding shined in her eye. She smiled, and ran to her mom. I wonder how her mother explained her gentlemen friends' relationship in the car on the way home, because I'm sure that little girl was full of questions...
I also wonder if I'll ever be allowed to have my child baptised...not that I'd do it.
Go Judaism!
These men are victorious. They have defeated the caitiff of homosexual stereotype. I hope I can learn from them, because I still feel trapped by it. Contrary to my gay-hating retaliation and unjustifiable retreat before I give myself the chance to get to know a boy, these heroes of the cause met, fell in love, and started a fucking family. That's beautiful. Cheers, guy! I hope one day I find someone who can help me slay the dragon of self-fulfilling prophecies. More gay couples need to start successful families in order to prove to the world that we can provide a healthy environment to raise kids, and to prove to our more lascivious counterparts that procreation is still the most rewarding outcome of life.
At the end of the event, I saw a little girl scouring a decorative pillar with paper-machet and pictures of the family. The pillar had pictures of their son, graduation pictures, wedding pictures, etc. At first, the girl was plagued with confusion, but as she stuck her face as close to each heart-shaped picture as she could without losing focus, a little spark of understanding shined in her eye. She smiled, and ran to her mom. I wonder how her mother explained her gentlemen friends' relationship in the car on the way home, because I'm sure that little girl was full of questions...
I also wonder if I'll ever be allowed to have my child baptised...not that I'd do it.
Go Judaism!
Thursday, May 15, 2008
"Muto"
MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.
I found this street art stop motion animation on the Stranger's blog. I was blown away by the amazing combination of media with the community. Click here to see the artist's website.
Woe is Fucking Me...I Wish I Had Poop Butt
WHAT THE FUCK FOLKS?
Is homosexuality a curse? Does it end with me in a hearse after attempting flight off of my thrilling third-floor walk-up?
Is it a test from God? Will my mettle be proven, if I stand the test of promiscuity and HIV?
My last post railed on women. Coincidentally, now I feel like railing on men. Gay men. Bear with me here, generalizations make me feel better:
Most gay men are fickle sluts--very much like college girls--with bodily desires that only tell them what's temporarily satisfying, and that's all they go after.
So what am I? I do have those bodily desires, but I feel nothing short of septic if I fulfill them with a random button-covered boy-toy. However, whenever I find myself climbing out of that platonic cave towards the light, I step too fast--a phone call too fast, a hand-hold too fast, a fuck to fast--and slide back to where I began...In a complex amalgamation of boredom and loneliness.
I want a sidekick. Someone to help me take on the world. Am I the only one who's slightly apprehensive about taking it on alone? Am I the only one who's willing to admit it, let alone do something about it? That's just self-righteous, though, isn't it. In the past year, I have found four potential sidekicks, and every single one has been sabotaged in the early stages. I'm not putting the blame on the respective lovers ether, because I sabotaged some of them as well.
Care giving is a past time of mine. I find it fulfilling to know that someone trusts you with his or her health, mental or physical. There's nothing wrong with that, unless you care give to the point of not knowing what it's like to be taken care of. I blame Jener, the fatherless boy I reared through puberty, and my mother. As awesome of a mother as she was, she raised me as an equal, not as a mother. Throughout my formative teen years, I didn't confide in my mother, nor did I rely on her cooking, cleaning, or wallet. I always wanted to prove that I didn't need to be taken care of. Well, now on the eve of my beginning a real life, it is crystal clear that I do need a mutual care partnership. I don't want to do this alone.
Sorry for the pretentious soul-searching, but this blog right now is as much for me as it is for you.
Is homosexuality a curse? Does it end with me in a hearse after attempting flight off of my thrilling third-floor walk-up?
Is it a test from God? Will my mettle be proven, if I stand the test of promiscuity and HIV?
My last post railed on women. Coincidentally, now I feel like railing on men. Gay men. Bear with me here, generalizations make me feel better:
Most gay men are fickle sluts--very much like college girls--with bodily desires that only tell them what's temporarily satisfying, and that's all they go after.
So what am I? I do have those bodily desires, but I feel nothing short of septic if I fulfill them with a random button-covered boy-toy. However, whenever I find myself climbing out of that platonic cave towards the light, I step too fast--a phone call too fast, a hand-hold too fast, a fuck to fast--and slide back to where I began...In a complex amalgamation of boredom and loneliness.
I want a sidekick. Someone to help me take on the world. Am I the only one who's slightly apprehensive about taking it on alone? Am I the only one who's willing to admit it, let alone do something about it? That's just self-righteous, though, isn't it. In the past year, I have found four potential sidekicks, and every single one has been sabotaged in the early stages. I'm not putting the blame on the respective lovers ether, because I sabotaged some of them as well.
Care giving is a past time of mine. I find it fulfilling to know that someone trusts you with his or her health, mental or physical. There's nothing wrong with that, unless you care give to the point of not knowing what it's like to be taken care of. I blame Jener, the fatherless boy I reared through puberty, and my mother. As awesome of a mother as she was, she raised me as an equal, not as a mother. Throughout my formative teen years, I didn't confide in my mother, nor did I rely on her cooking, cleaning, or wallet. I always wanted to prove that I didn't need to be taken care of. Well, now on the eve of my beginning a real life, it is crystal clear that I do need a mutual care partnership. I don't want to do this alone.
Sorry for the pretentious soul-searching, but this blog right now is as much for me as it is for you.
Those Summer Naaahhaaaiiiiiights
I know why I'm gay, and it's not because I had no father-figure throughout my childhood or because a little fairy sprinkled mascara over my infant eyes.
I'm gay because girls--not women--are sluts. I know most people are fooled by the misconception that guys are sluts, but to respond to that: at the end of the night, who is drinking still and who is running around looking for her second stiletto and a big, juicy, sausage to ride. The male sex cares more about drinking himself into his horniness, while the female casually lets herself become intoxicated until it's time to open up her double doors for the tallest, strongest offensive lineman. Women want sex at parties, and men want booze. These are all observations from a college student, mind you, who knows not what will happen after everyone starts their real lives.
But for now, girls are slutbags. And what's worse; most of them are closet slutbags, so nobody even knows the pile of venereal diseases that they've bathed in. They think all men want to fuck them, so they prance around a party till they pick an eligible bachelor. Upon selection, they cling, laugh at things that aren't funny, try to drink the dude under the table--which usually ends in a mess--or just flat out ask, "Want to fuck tonight?" And the honest sluts, if they're told "no", pout and moan and whine because they aren't getting a stretchy vagina in the next two hours.
A guy, gay or straight, would never linger at a party for hours when he had work at 9 AM the next morning in order to fuck some girl/guy that lives in the same neighborhood. He could fuck her/him any night of the week. Priorities, ladies, priorities. Not to mention, and if you haven't noticed that this example is based on a true experience already, it is; I picked up a slight vibe that this girl wanted her flavor of the night to leave all of his guests in order to go to sleep early so they could fuck. Good looking out, honey, I'm sure your boy-toy will be considered a classy host after that!
Granted, my buddy ended up being a great host to the girl that drank him under the table... Score one for the pinks. Hmph!
Not until today did I realize that men are hot because most of them are loyal, honest, and strong. Women are subversive, irrational, and lewd.
Besides, cocks are hand held, and in this day and age, anything you can hold in your hand is better than something you have to put on a table to use...or a bed.
P.S. I know, I need to start editing. I will, soon.
P.P.S. I know this doesn't apply to every girl, but it does apply to a lot, and that sucks for the breeders.
I'm gay because girls--not women--are sluts. I know most people are fooled by the misconception that guys are sluts, but to respond to that: at the end of the night, who is drinking still and who is running around looking for her second stiletto and a big, juicy, sausage to ride. The male sex cares more about drinking himself into his horniness, while the female casually lets herself become intoxicated until it's time to open up her double doors for the tallest, strongest offensive lineman. Women want sex at parties, and men want booze. These are all observations from a college student, mind you, who knows not what will happen after everyone starts their real lives.
But for now, girls are slutbags. And what's worse; most of them are closet slutbags, so nobody even knows the pile of venereal diseases that they've bathed in. They think all men want to fuck them, so they prance around a party till they pick an eligible bachelor. Upon selection, they cling, laugh at things that aren't funny, try to drink the dude under the table--which usually ends in a mess--or just flat out ask, "Want to fuck tonight?" And the honest sluts, if they're told "no", pout and moan and whine because they aren't getting a stretchy vagina in the next two hours.
A guy, gay or straight, would never linger at a party for hours when he had work at 9 AM the next morning in order to fuck some girl/guy that lives in the same neighborhood. He could fuck her/him any night of the week. Priorities, ladies, priorities. Not to mention, and if you haven't noticed that this example is based on a true experience already, it is; I picked up a slight vibe that this girl wanted her flavor of the night to leave all of his guests in order to go to sleep early so they could fuck. Good looking out, honey, I'm sure your boy-toy will be considered a classy host after that!
Granted, my buddy ended up being a great host to the girl that drank him under the table... Score one for the pinks. Hmph!
Not until today did I realize that men are hot because most of them are loyal, honest, and strong. Women are subversive, irrational, and lewd.
Besides, cocks are hand held, and in this day and age, anything you can hold in your hand is better than something you have to put on a table to use...or a bed.
P.S. I know, I need to start editing. I will, soon.
P.P.S. I know this doesn't apply to every girl, but it does apply to a lot, and that sucks for the breeders.
Monday, May 12, 2008
An Ode to a Wardrobe With a Black and White Janis Joplin Postcard in the Mirror
I purposely left out one of the best parts of Saturday night in the last post because I didn't want to spoil a good opening for this one. After I left Jessie's house, I decided to walk to Charles St. station to catch the Red Line directly. It's a bit longer of a walk, and as I looked at my phone to time my journey for fun, I realized it was 12:01. Mother's Day had begun.
Mother's Day carries a lot of baggage with it this year, as I have barely seen my mother at all this year, and it's not looking like I'll be seeing her any time soon. Mothers can be as delicate as a Rose or as harsh as a crow bar smashing through a window in a mad attempt at severe bodily injury. They're crucial, influential, and even godlike when looked at through the eyes of a completely helpless, dependent infant.
My mother is the sun in my solar system. I have her to thank for being brought into this world. After all, she allowed those doctors to slice her lower abdomen open and invade her womb with rubber gloves and clamps. All of this she allowed so that I could walk around and kiss boys and dance and play Nintendo Wii and rock out with my cock out and answer the phone and play on stage and even write in this blog. Gee, ma. Thanks!
My childhood was awesome. No pops, just a street wise Mom and a coddling Grams. Pops actually wanted to slit my little fetus' throat. But my mom knew better. She told me this story: Months prior to her getting pregnant with me, she bought a little decorative wand at a new age store. When she was at the counter, the hippied-out cashier said, "Now you know what you're supposed to do with this, right?" My mom cluelessly replied no and the cashier continued, "Well, all you gotta do is put this under your pillow after saying a prayer to it with a wish. It's supposed to manifest into reality if you keep it under your pillow." That night, she prayed to the wand and God, "Please, God. Send me the man of my dreams."
"And that man, I believe, was you," She would tell me. I would questioningly reply, "What about when you had to change your sheets? How did you keep the wand under your pillow?" Fucking kids...
My mom had cleaned up her life and was ready for something like me to show the world to. I was willing and enthusiastic. She was more than my mom, she was my teacher, my partner. She taught me empathy--to put myself in others' shoes. She took me to every tap/jazz class, every piano lesson, every tee ball practice (until I split my head open in one of the dugouts and had to get 4 staples in my skull), every soccer practice, every hockey practice, every dive team practice and every rehearsal so that I could figure out what I liked. She put up with Ali and Max and I trashing every room we were left alone in and continually causing trouble well into our preteens. She ordered us a pizza from Papa John's every Friday night and ate it even though she hated pizza. All she had to do was love me, but she did so much more.
Into my teen years, she cried and asked "what am I supposed to do?" when she caught me sneaking out of the house at night to hook up with the Floridian Flavor of the Week instead of screaming at me and belittling me and punishing me. I told her what to do: "Scream at me! Belittle me! Punish me!" She couldn't, of course, and we talked instead. Now I rely on her for my relationship advice. I mean the woman's been around the block, she knows what's up. She has picked out and bought almost my entire wardrobe. She's got great taste.
Most of all, though, she instilled in me the desire to pass on the torch. She has put a flame of inspiration in me and I have utilized it every day of my life. Every book I read is because of that flame. I will one day have a child of my own to pass on everything my mother showed me plus my addition, and so on and so on, until perhaps it is my family name that finally meets the Nietzsche-coined ubermensch. Thanks for that, Mom, and I won't let you down.
Happy day-after-Mother's-Day everyone. No matter where your moms are, I'm sure they're loving you as much as they did when they were warming you against their soft bosom. And remember that flame. Everybody's mother has given one to her child, and it contains a piece of her heart so that she'll always be with them.
P.S. I know some of this shit is super-cornerific, but Fuck You it's for Mother's Day.
Thanks Hallmark, for designating a day I'm supposed to ruminate on such a great subject.
Be safe.
Mother's Day carries a lot of baggage with it this year, as I have barely seen my mother at all this year, and it's not looking like I'll be seeing her any time soon. Mothers can be as delicate as a Rose or as harsh as a crow bar smashing through a window in a mad attempt at severe bodily injury. They're crucial, influential, and even godlike when looked at through the eyes of a completely helpless, dependent infant.
My mother is the sun in my solar system. I have her to thank for being brought into this world. After all, she allowed those doctors to slice her lower abdomen open and invade her womb with rubber gloves and clamps. All of this she allowed so that I could walk around and kiss boys and dance and play Nintendo Wii and rock out with my cock out and answer the phone and play on stage and even write in this blog. Gee, ma. Thanks!
My childhood was awesome. No pops, just a street wise Mom and a coddling Grams. Pops actually wanted to slit my little fetus' throat. But my mom knew better. She told me this story: Months prior to her getting pregnant with me, she bought a little decorative wand at a new age store. When she was at the counter, the hippied-out cashier said, "Now you know what you're supposed to do with this, right?" My mom cluelessly replied no and the cashier continued, "Well, all you gotta do is put this under your pillow after saying a prayer to it with a wish. It's supposed to manifest into reality if you keep it under your pillow." That night, she prayed to the wand and God, "Please, God. Send me the man of my dreams."
"And that man, I believe, was you," She would tell me. I would questioningly reply, "What about when you had to change your sheets? How did you keep the wand under your pillow?" Fucking kids...
My mom had cleaned up her life and was ready for something like me to show the world to. I was willing and enthusiastic. She was more than my mom, she was my teacher, my partner. She taught me empathy--to put myself in others' shoes. She took me to every tap/jazz class, every piano lesson, every tee ball practice (until I split my head open in one of the dugouts and had to get 4 staples in my skull), every soccer practice, every hockey practice, every dive team practice and every rehearsal so that I could figure out what I liked. She put up with Ali and Max and I trashing every room we were left alone in and continually causing trouble well into our preteens. She ordered us a pizza from Papa John's every Friday night and ate it even though she hated pizza. All she had to do was love me, but she did so much more.
Into my teen years, she cried and asked "what am I supposed to do?" when she caught me sneaking out of the house at night to hook up with the Floridian Flavor of the Week instead of screaming at me and belittling me and punishing me. I told her what to do: "Scream at me! Belittle me! Punish me!" She couldn't, of course, and we talked instead. Now I rely on her for my relationship advice. I mean the woman's been around the block, she knows what's up. She has picked out and bought almost my entire wardrobe. She's got great taste.
Most of all, though, she instilled in me the desire to pass on the torch. She has put a flame of inspiration in me and I have utilized it every day of my life. Every book I read is because of that flame. I will one day have a child of my own to pass on everything my mother showed me plus my addition, and so on and so on, until perhaps it is my family name that finally meets the Nietzsche-coined ubermensch. Thanks for that, Mom, and I won't let you down.
Happy day-after-Mother's-Day everyone. No matter where your moms are, I'm sure they're loving you as much as they did when they were warming you against their soft bosom. And remember that flame. Everybody's mother has given one to her child, and it contains a piece of her heart so that she'll always be with them.
P.S. I know some of this shit is super-cornerific, but Fuck You it's for Mother's Day.
Thanks Hallmark, for designating a day I'm supposed to ruminate on such a great subject.
Be safe.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
So Many Possibilities...So Why Do I Have the Runs?
Karma's a bitch sometimes. Banal, but true. You can't take too many liberties in this world without justice crashing it's bronze hand down to smash your hopes of exploitation into golden blow for the gods. You know it's good when it's gold. With liberty and justice for all..
Yesterday was Death Cab day, which means I saw Death Cab for Cutie rock out. It was a perfect day besides the cool weather for which I was under dressed. After a Paramount breakfast--both paramount and hailing from Paramount Grill--I did a quick Boston News Net setup before Jess and I booked it over to the Bank of America Pavilion. Showing up two hours before our headlining superstars proved to be a bad idea as the sun got blown away by a chill that became a character building experience for the two of us. Needless to say, we felt we had plenty of character without the weather's influence. For the record, if you ever need to warm up at a cold outdoor venue, check the bathrooms. A five minute break by the pisser does wonders for your body heat, whether you piss in it or not...
By the time we arrived at the Pavilion, Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls was on stage singing. I was surprised her voice didn't attract whales to the stage. There was one clearly gay boy with big, unattractively large hoop earrings standing five rows from the front singing absolutely every single one of her lyrics with a smile on his face and sweat on his brow. Although I felt like I was at the Menses Fair, watching Hedwig struggle with an absent crowd, I couldn't help but feel some respect for someone who truly loves her music as much as she loves that one random boy who understood her. She made that boy's day, singing right to him most of her set.
As much as the lone ranger with hula hoops did enjoy Miz Palmer's sea-mammalian mating calls, Jess and I had to walk around and find some food. For the best pizza in Beantown, everyone knows Pizzeria Regina's in the North End is paramount--this time, it just means paramount. You knew that...
The Pizzeria Regina's in malls and this Bank of America Pavilion, however, share nothing of the favorable qualities that the original has. But it was either that or laxative-injected venue food, so we went all out and ordered a whole pie. As you have to wait for those to be made, we stood off to the side and let the other customers pay. After the pizza was finished, my new buddy Gino gave me a pizza with more lube than my ass has EVER seen. Jess mumbles, "Wait I didn't pay yet" but I preclude her sentence with a curt, inconspicuous, "Just go." So we went...and that's how you rock yourself some price-inflated 22 dollar pizza for free.
Presidents of the United States of America were fun. There music is worth having if only for creating those All-American song montages in films. They had two really sweet choreographed and synchronized rock-outs that blew me away, but their song-transitions were staged and there were certain gimmicks they brought out in which they expected a certain reaction from the audience that they didn't get, which makes me feel a bit bad for them. I don't want to feel bad at a concert...POTUSA...you're fired! Unless you're singing Peaches or a cover of Video Killed the Radio Star. Those songs are epic.
Finally--and by this point, I've nestled up with Jess and tried to dance to POTUSA songs that I didn't particularly like to prevent hypothermia from setting in--Ben and the gang arrive, and my ears are graced with passion dripping from the sweaty clumps of hair blocking his view of my enthralled face. No, I'm not obsessed, just passionate about musical performance. Image is everything, and these guys are rocking the collared shirts and western button downs. I call my best friend, Jess, when "I'll Follow You into the Dark" comes on, and sing along into the receiver. Everyone in that pavilion got a chance to experience the birth and growth of each and every song as they took us on an emotional rollercoaster for a full hour and a half long. Their new stuff, by the way...major refinement has taken place and I'm excited to see where they go next. They are getting some groove, and I like it.
One great show, one mug of hot cocoa, and a photo-gossip session later, Karma pays me back for the pizza-themed peccadillo. All that grease, instead of clogging up my arteries and making me break out, turned my shit to brown, smelly spit. I had the runs all Sunday morning. Classy...
Today's lesson: If you're going to steal from the man, make sure you pay him back in some way...even if it's a dollar. Otherwise, you'll get the shits.
Peace
K
Yesterday was Death Cab day, which means I saw Death Cab for Cutie rock out. It was a perfect day besides the cool weather for which I was under dressed. After a Paramount breakfast--both paramount and hailing from Paramount Grill--I did a quick Boston News Net setup before Jess and I booked it over to the Bank of America Pavilion. Showing up two hours before our headlining superstars proved to be a bad idea as the sun got blown away by a chill that became a character building experience for the two of us. Needless to say, we felt we had plenty of character without the weather's influence. For the record, if you ever need to warm up at a cold outdoor venue, check the bathrooms. A five minute break by the pisser does wonders for your body heat, whether you piss in it or not...
By the time we arrived at the Pavilion, Amanda Palmer of the Dresden Dolls was on stage singing. I was surprised her voice didn't attract whales to the stage. There was one clearly gay boy with big, unattractively large hoop earrings standing five rows from the front singing absolutely every single one of her lyrics with a smile on his face and sweat on his brow. Although I felt like I was at the Menses Fair, watching Hedwig struggle with an absent crowd, I couldn't help but feel some respect for someone who truly loves her music as much as she loves that one random boy who understood her. She made that boy's day, singing right to him most of her set.
As much as the lone ranger with hula hoops did enjoy Miz Palmer's sea-mammalian mating calls, Jess and I had to walk around and find some food. For the best pizza in Beantown, everyone knows Pizzeria Regina's in the North End is paramount--this time, it just means paramount. You knew that...
The Pizzeria Regina's in malls and this Bank of America Pavilion, however, share nothing of the favorable qualities that the original has. But it was either that or laxative-injected venue food, so we went all out and ordered a whole pie. As you have to wait for those to be made, we stood off to the side and let the other customers pay. After the pizza was finished, my new buddy Gino gave me a pizza with more lube than my ass has EVER seen. Jess mumbles, "Wait I didn't pay yet" but I preclude her sentence with a curt, inconspicuous, "Just go." So we went...and that's how you rock yourself some price-inflated 22 dollar pizza for free.
Presidents of the United States of America were fun. There music is worth having if only for creating those All-American song montages in films. They had two really sweet choreographed and synchronized rock-outs that blew me away, but their song-transitions were staged and there were certain gimmicks they brought out in which they expected a certain reaction from the audience that they didn't get, which makes me feel a bit bad for them. I don't want to feel bad at a concert...POTUSA...you're fired! Unless you're singing Peaches or a cover of Video Killed the Radio Star. Those songs are epic.
Finally--and by this point, I've nestled up with Jess and tried to dance to POTUSA songs that I didn't particularly like to prevent hypothermia from setting in--Ben and the gang arrive, and my ears are graced with passion dripping from the sweaty clumps of hair blocking his view of my enthralled face. No, I'm not obsessed, just passionate about musical performance. Image is everything, and these guys are rocking the collared shirts and western button downs. I call my best friend, Jess, when "I'll Follow You into the Dark" comes on, and sing along into the receiver. Everyone in that pavilion got a chance to experience the birth and growth of each and every song as they took us on an emotional rollercoaster for a full hour and a half long. Their new stuff, by the way...major refinement has taken place and I'm excited to see where they go next. They are getting some groove, and I like it.
One great show, one mug of hot cocoa, and a photo-gossip session later, Karma pays me back for the pizza-themed peccadillo. All that grease, instead of clogging up my arteries and making me break out, turned my shit to brown, smelly spit. I had the runs all Sunday morning. Classy...
Today's lesson: If you're going to steal from the man, make sure you pay him back in some way...even if it's a dollar. Otherwise, you'll get the shits.
Peace
K
Friday, May 9, 2008
Whistle While You Work
You know what absolutely freaking rocks? Music. Music is the universal language, fuck math. Hell, music is math. Quarter notes, half rests, rhythm, and distance. It's all math. So I love music, because it's a chance for one 1 plus 1 to equal 2. Two separate, distinct numbers add together to create a new number, bigger and more whole. Like sex. Music is sex without the clingy residue--that's a double entendre, folks.
I work for a catering temp agency. One of the complications of working for such a respectable exploitation business is the lack of consistency between jobs. Each time I work an event, the people I'm working with and for are different. It's hard to enjoy yourself when you can't even remember half of the names of your coworkers, because there are more than a hundred of them. However, I have discovered a trick. I don't have to know peoples names to have a good time with them, I just have to know their taste in music. Shit, who cares what someone has to say if they can hum a good harmony to Paul Simon Africa shit...
So this girl, Molly, was getting a third orifice ripped by this ass hole event manager, clearly wasn't having the best day, and we still had to break down an entire event before she or anyone got a chance to relax. I don't know her well enough to cross the boundaries of nosiness and ask her to milk her problems into my vat of tasty depression, so I use the one thing I know about her--she's a vocal performance major at Boston Conservatory--and start to sing some Neil Diamond. BAM. Instant connection, and now we're doing a show for the entertainment of the whole staff. After a warm applause and some cold ice water dumped in the slop bucket, we all sat down to a nice surf and turf with Boston cream pie for dessert. I took the T back downtown with Angelica having made friends with the whole waitstaff including Molly.
People need to sing more music together.
People don't necessarily need to sing more Neil Diamond music together...
I do, though.
I work for a catering temp agency. One of the complications of working for such a respectable exploitation business is the lack of consistency between jobs. Each time I work an event, the people I'm working with and for are different. It's hard to enjoy yourself when you can't even remember half of the names of your coworkers, because there are more than a hundred of them. However, I have discovered a trick. I don't have to know peoples names to have a good time with them, I just have to know their taste in music. Shit, who cares what someone has to say if they can hum a good harmony to Paul Simon Africa shit...
So this girl, Molly, was getting a third orifice ripped by this ass hole event manager, clearly wasn't having the best day, and we still had to break down an entire event before she or anyone got a chance to relax. I don't know her well enough to cross the boundaries of nosiness and ask her to milk her problems into my vat of tasty depression, so I use the one thing I know about her--she's a vocal performance major at Boston Conservatory--and start to sing some Neil Diamond. BAM. Instant connection, and now we're doing a show for the entertainment of the whole staff. After a warm applause and some cold ice water dumped in the slop bucket, we all sat down to a nice surf and turf with Boston cream pie for dessert. I took the T back downtown with Angelica having made friends with the whole waitstaff including Molly.
People need to sing more music together.
People don't necessarily need to sing more Neil Diamond music together...
I do, though.
So it all begins here...
I'm not a blogger. Usually, I find it ridiculously hard to get my point across to someone I can't even maintain eye contact with. There is so much body-to-body communication that goes on between people in a passionate conversation. Even phones suck at truly connecting people in the transcendental way we are able to.
However, there are many reasons text-based communication has saved the more pathetic members of the human race. It makes it easier to talk to someone if you have a social problem. All the weirdos get to make friends for a hot minute longer than they would have if someone was able to see them, immediately judge them, and thusly avoid them. And one can't forget text-message break-ups and the like. Who wants to do that shit face to face? I don't have the willpower to sit and watch some pathetic, clueless object of my transient affections get glassy eyes and pouty lips and start to question my humours. MY humours! Hell, I don't even know why they change when they do.
Maybe the problem is the willpower. Should I have the willpower to sit and experience the victim of my volatile emotions and commitments' regret and surprise at my flippant romantic ideologies. Maybe I need to sympathize. Or is it empathize... Hmmm...Can't really do that through text-based communication, huh? Well, I'm going to try.
Like I said, I'm not a blogger...but I'm going to try to be one.
And now I am one **post**
However, there are many reasons text-based communication has saved the more pathetic members of the human race. It makes it easier to talk to someone if you have a social problem. All the weirdos get to make friends for a hot minute longer than they would have if someone was able to see them, immediately judge them, and thusly avoid them. And one can't forget text-message break-ups and the like. Who wants to do that shit face to face? I don't have the willpower to sit and watch some pathetic, clueless object of my transient affections get glassy eyes and pouty lips and start to question my humours. MY humours! Hell, I don't even know why they change when they do.
Maybe the problem is the willpower. Should I have the willpower to sit and experience the victim of my volatile emotions and commitments' regret and surprise at my flippant romantic ideologies. Maybe I need to sympathize. Or is it empathize... Hmmm...Can't really do that through text-based communication, huh? Well, I'm going to try.
Like I said, I'm not a blogger...but I'm going to try to be one.
And now I am one **post**
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